


They Shoot Werewolves, Don't They?

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, First Kiss, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is a Nice Thing, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27723052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: “Oh good, you’re here,” Stiles says like he isn’t standing there in Derek’s hallway with that stupid, perfect smile on his face. He’s holding a grocery bag full of food, with what Derek’s pretty sure is a frozen turkey sticking out over the top.“Am I asleep?” Derek asks stupidly, although something tells him that even his subconscious wouldn’t be fucked up enough over the holidays to dream up Stiles Stilinski standing here in his apartment, gawking at him, and holding a frozen turkey.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 17
Kudos: 566





	They Shoot Werewolves, Don't They?

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Friendsgiving, discord friends!

They Shoot Werewolves, Don’t They?

It wasn’t as if Derek was entirely anti-Thanksgiving (except for the obvious reasons -- the whole decimating an entire indigenous population and celebrating the bunch of greedy, racist imperialist conquerors who did it thing). Contrary to popular opinion, he didn’t actually hate fun. He didn’t have some supernatural predilection for hating holidays, or celebrations in general, like everyone seemed to think. It was just kind of hard to get it up for them when he spent the last decade trying to do the opposite. Laura had tried a few times over the years when they were crammed into that crummy studio apartment with a stove that smelled like gas no matter how many times they got the super to “fix” it, and a freezer that barely kept things cold, let alone frozen. But that hadn’t even been the real problem. The problem was them, he and Laura -- both somehow together and alone at the same time, staring at each other from across that rickety card table they used, and only noticing every single empty place beside them.

The attempt at tradition hadn’t lasted, obviously. 

And now, with Laura gone, and Peter presumably dead or off crazy somewhere, it was much easier to stay inside, alone, and pretend nothing was happening. Not that  _ ignore it and it’ll go away _ has ever really worked for him, but for days like today, he’s not going to dwell on it. Derek’s sure Stiles would have plenty to say about that, he thinks, staring at the mostly non-existent contents of his own refrigerator with disinterest (not that it matters because he’s the farthest thing from hungry). He settles on coffee with more sugar and milk than actual coffee, honestly, and proceeds to collapse on the couch to laze the rest of the day away. 

Nothing seems to hold his interest -- not tv, not books, not working out, not music,  _ nothing.  _ Save for the swirling brown clouds in his cup that remind him of those same honey-colored eyes that don’t just haunt his dreams but his waking thoughts, too. He’s not sure exactly when it happened (yes he is, that annoying voice that sounds fucking exactly like Stiles prods at him in the back of his mind), but along the way, in the midst of all the fucked up supernatural crap they were always having to deal with, the constant, overhanging threat of slow and painful death,, it had crept up on him. Those damn eyes had been like quicksand, and Derek hadn’t realized he was drowning in it until he was already pulled under, choking the same way he’d choked on that disgusting pool water the night Stiles had done something nobody else had in a long time: surprised him. And saved him. Started this whole damn mess by being brave, and loyal, and too smart for his own good. With his ridiculously perfect mouth, his strangely beautiful face, and a scent that made the wolf in Derek practically rabid at the mere thought of claiming him.

Mostly though, by being  _ a fucking idiot _ . 

Because honestly, sometimes he wishes Stiles would have just let him drown. Put him out of his misery. At least he wouldn’t have to feel this way. 

It’s pathetic, is what it is, the mere fact that he’s alone, in the dark,  _ pining  _ like some kind of love-sick idiot on one of those annoying and strangely high-pitched teen soaps that Lydia and Allison were always forcing everyone to watch.

Still, if the love-sick-idiot title fits. 

Ugh.

It’s nowhere close to evening, but Derek’s ready to throw in the towel on the whole day and frankly has been since he woke up this morning. And maybe that’s pathetic, too (it is, obviously), but he figures he’s already kind of resigned himself to that by putting on pajama pants and brushing his teeth so he can go to bed at four pm. Safe to say, he’s definitely not expecting guests. So, imagine his surprise when he leaves the bathroom, his toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth and staring listlessly at his own feet when he looks up and finds he’s not alone. Looks up to see the same pair of eyes that’s been bouncing around in his brain for the past six hours of consciousness, and he wonders, briefly, if he’s finally lost it. Full-on screeching into the void, watching the walls melt around him in a  _ The Yellow Wallpaper _ sort of way--cuckoo bananas. 

“Oh good, you’re here,” Stiles says like he isn’t standing there in Derek’s hallway with that stupid, perfect smile on his face. He’s holding a grocery bag full of food, with what Derek’s pretty sure is a frozen turkey sticking out over the top. 

“Am I asleep?” Derek asks stupidly, although something tells him that even his subconscious wouldn’t be fucked up enough over the holidays to dream up Stiles Stilinski standing here in his apartment, gawking at him, and holding a frozen turkey. 

“Um, no," Stiles laughs, and Derek almost wishes he wouldn’t, because all he can see now is that long, beautiful line of his neck that Derek  _ knows _ for a fact he’s personally dreamt about many times, so he’s not one hundred percent sure he should believe this poultry-wielding Stiles. “But it looks like you were heading there. Nice pajamas, by the way.”

“You’re in my house.”

“Nothing gets past you,” Stiles quips, rocking back awkwardly on his heels. “I won’t tell the pack about the pajama thing. Mostly because I want to save all those old man jokes for my own personal use. But after you change, you should go use your manly alpha werewolf strength to go help everyone else unload the car.”

“Unload the wha -- what is happening?” Derek blinks. “Who else is here with you?”

Stiles just shakes his head and gives him the strangest, knowing look. “Everyone, duh. Now go. Real pants! A shirt! Well, I mean, I'm not gonna complain if you skip the--"

“Stiles," Derek growls, narrowing his gaze suspiciously as he surveys the sudden blush blooming on the boy's pale cheeks. "Why are you here?”

Stiles rolls his eyes but still gives Derek one of those weird yet adorably goofy smiles he’s somehow patented. “Because it’s Thanksgiving, dumbass.” 

  
  


…

Stiles hadn’t been exaggerating. When Derek gets changed and makes his way to the living room, he’s momentarily shocked to see the entire pack standing in his kitchen. Even  _ Jackson _ is here. And they’re staring at him so intently, for a moment Derek feels weirdly naked and is tempted to look down to make sure he got dressed at all.

“Don’t you all have somewhere else to be?” he asks, eyebrow arched and arms crossed defensively.

Stiles doesn’t turn around from where he’s hovering over the sink, washing something. Vegetables, Derek thinks. “You didn’t think we were going to let you stay here and brood all by yourself, did you?”

Derek bristles. “I wasn’t--”

“You were going to go to bed at four pm. You know who goes to bed at four pm?” 

“Tired people?” 

Stiles snorts.“No --”

“Depressed, sad, lonely people?” Erica calls from the living room where she’s already comfortably nestled at Boyd’s feet "Also, old people," she adds, baring her teeth in a grin that's decidedly more feral cat than wolf. Scott guffaws but tries to hide it from where he’s sprawled out lazily next to them, flipping through various sports games on Derek’s television like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Derek sighs. “Just shoot me now.” 

“Calm down, Gloria Beatty. It’s just Thanksgiving dinner. I promise you’ll survive,” Stiles says, slightly muffled because he’s peering into Derek’s oven like he’s worried something’s been living in there. 

“When’s the last time you even turned this thing on?” Allison asks curiously, looking over Stiles’s shoulder.

“I don’t -- “

“Derek doesn’t cook,” Stiles says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Unless you count reheating the meatloaf and tamales Jackson’s housekeeper brings him, which I don’t.”

“Hey, I can -- “ he starts, growling when he’s interrupted, yet again, by Isaac. 

“Rosita brings you food? Why doesn’t she bring the rest of us food? I like tamales and meatloaf.”

“Because,” Jackson says, sitting on one of the barstools, looking bored as he mixes something in a bowl under the strict and watchful eye of a certain red-haired banshee, “she thinks Derek’s going to starve if she doesn’t. Because he’s sad and old ( _ “I’m not old. I’m twenty-four!” _ ) and lives all alone. That, plus the 'his entire family’s dead thing.'"

Stiles lets out an impressively werewolf-esque snarl and reaches back from where he’s stationed himself at the counter to whack Jackson upside the head.

“ _ Ow, fuck.”  _

Derek is oddly touched.

“Well, my whole family’s dead, too, so where’s my meatloaf is all I’m saying,” Isaac mumbles sourly. 

“She must not think you’re  _ muy guapo  _ enough,” Lydia says with a shrug, flashing Derek a wink and a smirk that makes him blush so hard he wonders for a moment if his head is actually on fire. 

“Can we not -- “ he asks desperately, biting back a groan. Derek doesn’t have to say anything more apparently though, because suddenly everyone’s watching as a potato peeler (which Derek has no idea where that even came from because it certainly wasn’t his kitchen) sails across the room and hits Isaac squarely on the forehead. The blonde wolf blinks dumbly, momentarily stunned.

“Less whine-y, more peel-y, Isaac,” Stiles snaps, and Derek is suddenly filled with the overwhelming urge to grab the boy and kiss him. 

Honestly, it’s not the last time he expects to have the urge tonight.

…

Stiles wasn’t exactly lying when he said Derek didn’t cook, but it also wasn’t the whole truth. It’s not that he doesn’t know how, it’s just that he doesn’t like to. It’s a strange feeling, for his normally cold, mostly empty loft to be filled with people, warmth, the sounds and smells of cooking food that wasn’t frozen in a plastic tray to start with. It brings back those hollow, aching memories of home, of family, that make his chest hurt and leaves a sour taste in his mouth all at once. 

Most of the pack has moved to the living room, sprawled out over various surfaces and couch pillows that have been tossed onto the floor. It’s a waiting game, mostly, for dinner to be ready. Still, Derek doesn’t think it’s exactly good optics for him to abandon Stiles in the kitchen. At least that’s what he tells himself is the reason. Yep, the only reason.

“Are you okay, Sourwolf?” 

“Yes,” Derek answers automatically. “You told me to chop, so I’m chopping.” 

“I know,” Stiles says. “You’ve been doing a really good job chopping up that cutting board. I’m sure it’ll really add a great texture to the stuffing. Alton Brown would be proud.”

Derek looks down to see that Stiles isn’t wrong -- his knife is halfway through the plastic and he hadn’t even noticed. 

“It’s okay,” Stiles murmurs. “I just thought -- “ he trails off for a moment, and Derek doesn’t have to turn to look at him to imagine the way he’s gnawing at his bottom lip, and he’s not going to look. He doesn’t think he can take it, if he looks. “I just thought it might help. Not being alone. I’m sorry if --”

Derek takes a deep breath and it’s only half because he doesn’t really want to have share time right now. He’s certainly never going to admit to the other half, which is that the boy’s scent when he’s near like this is so beyond too much that it feels like it’s almost enough to break him. “It does,” he says, finally, before ducking his head and returning to his task and thankfully managing to avoid further gouging the countertop.

“My mom and I used to cook for my dad like this every year,” Stiles offers finally, quietly. “Back, you know,” he adds, smiling weakly, “when my dad was allowed to eat that stuff.” 

It feels like Stiles is waiting for him to say something, but God, Derek really doesn’t want to and he’s not even sure he can. If he’s even capable. The moment passes, clearly, because the boy turns his back to Derek and somehow it feels like a door slamming shut between them. And Derek hates it.

“My mother wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. Neither was Laura. Laura, she was just clumsy,” he blurts out, finally,, humming thoughtfully as the memory starts to fully form on his tongue. “You’d think she wouldn’t be, but somehow the minute she got close to anyone even attempting to cook, it was like open season on every single dish we owned. But my mother. My mother was just...an awful cook,” he says, grinning sheepishly. Stiles laughs and that’s enough for Derek to keep going. Because it doesn’t sound like pity, and that -- that really is enough. “The one time she tried to roast the turkey for Thanksgiving, she left the plastic wrap on and nearly burnt the h--” Derek trails off, the grin morphing into a grimace, mostly because it hadn't been his intention to lasso the my-whole-family-burnt-up-in-a-fire-and-it-was-my-fault elephant into the room. It really hadn’t.

And god, Derek really must be out of it because that’s the only reason he can think that Stiles is able to sneak up behind him without him realizing it until he’s  _ right there.  _ Stiles doesn’t say anything, but Derek can hear his heart hammering in his chest. It only gets louder, faster, as the wolf watches him curl those long, delicate fingers around Derek’s wrist. 

Stiles’s skin is cool, the pads of his fingers a little rough, and it takes everything in Derek not to flinch. He sucks in another rattling breath and finally dares to turn his head, but Stiles’s expression still feels unreadable. It feels like he’s searching for something, and Derek isn’t sure what has to give. If he even has anything to offer. Because the way Stiles is looking at him makes something in Derek feel like shattering, and he can’t expect Stiles to pick up the pieces, and he would never, ever ask.

Stiles could make or break him with a word, Derek knows that like he knows his own name. So imagine his surprise when that word is _ “Pies.”  _

“What?” Derek rasps. 

“Pies are done,” the boy breathes out, and then, whatever spell they’d cast is broken by the ear-splitting buzz of the oven timer that makes every werewolf in the house, Derek included, cringe. Stiles’s hand is suddenly gone and Derek would be left with the lingering doubt that it had happened at all if it weren’t for the fact that his wrist was still slightly cooler than the rest of him, from the heat the boy had leached from Derek’s skin. 

Dinner is fine. Good, even. Although Derek doesn’t technically have a dining table, so they all end up basically eating on the floor. Lydia is particularly offended by this, and Derek finally agrees to let her order one just to get her to shut up about it. There are the typical arguments and insults and shockingly normal banter between them all, save for Derek, who is quiet, but no one expects him to be otherwise so it doesn’t matter. It’s surprisingly easy.

Nice, even. 

He expects everyone to get out of there after they’re finished eating, but when Derek suggests they leave the cleanup to him and have a good night, they all look at him like he’s suddenly speaking in tongues or something.

“It’s not time to go home yet,” Stiles says like he’s some kind of idiot for even suggesting it. “It’s time to watch a movie and digest.”

Derek eyes him warily. “I’m not watching The Notebook,” he says, ignoring Lydia’s indignant sniff. “Or Twilight,” he adds, with a pointed glare in Allison and Erica’s direction, because he still hasn’t forgiven them for tricking him into watching that one. 

“There’s only one true Thanksgiving movie, dude,” Scott says. And Derek really would like to know where all these fucking rules came from, thank you very much, but Stiles is watching him so fucking earnestly and hopefully that he just doesn’t bother. Instead, he just sighs and tells them to get on with it, taking his customary place on the corner of the couch. Everyone else follows suit, the respective couples curling around each other. Stiles sits on the floor in front of him, tucked against his legs, close but not too close.  _ (Not close enough.) _

Apparently the ultimate Thanksgiving movie is  _ Back to The Future _ , which Derek doesn’t understand that correlation in the slightest, and when Stiles tries to explain it, rambling on about parallelism and flux capacitors or something, he can’t bring himself to try to care. Honestly, anything could be playing on that screen right now and he’d be fine with it. Embarrassingly enough, this is the most contented Derek’s felt in months. Maybe all year. The wolf in him feels shockingly settled. Even if his very human feelings feel like some kind of maelstrom inside him, the instincts he was born with, the need for a full belly, warm den, strong pack, is all strangely sated here. 

Stiles is still talking (he always talks during movies, so nobody bothers to say anything about it, Derek included), and the familiar cadence and rhythm of his voice coupled with the chorus of the steady, even hearts of his pack beating in tandem make it too easy for Derek to drift off. He’s asleep before anybody even makes it to the Under the Sea dance. 

Whatever that is.

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is that he’s sweating. He’s on the couch, he knows that, but it takes him longer to realize that the reason he feels like he’s about to die of heatstroke is that someone, admittedly thoughtfully, had tossed a blanket over him before they’d left. It’s dark, save for the warm glow of the fluorescent lights coming from the kitchen. There’s only one other heartbeat now, and he knows from the hummingbird’s pace of it, without even factoring in the scent of him, that it’s Stiles. 

“They left you with the dishes?” Derek asks, leaning against the kitchen doorway, the scent of dawn soap tickling his nose. “You could’ve woken me.”

“I heard old people need their rest,” Stiles says, setting a dripping plate on the rack and wiping his hands with a towel. He’s smiling-- Derek can see the white gleam of his teeth from across the room. 

“ _ Cute,”  _ Derek says, rolling his eyes. Stiles just laughs and shakes his head, before holding out the dish towel, a wordless invitation.

For a long time, there’s only the sound of their breathing, the drip of the faucet, the tinkling sounds of glass and porcelain. Derek, surprisingly, is the first one to break the silence.

“Thanks,” he mutters because he guesses it feels like it needs to be said and he also guesses he’s not going to have to explain why. “I don’t know why you bother, but --” 

Stiles lets the damp glass he’d been washing fall back into the sink with a startlingly loud clunk.  _ “Seriously?”  _ he asks,  _ “you seriously don’t know?” _

“What?” 

Stiles sighs. “I feel like I was pretty fucking obvious. Like, ‘jump out the window and hit every branch on the not-so-subtle tree on the way down’ obvious.”

Derek blinks. “I have no clue what you just said.” 

“Of course you don’t,” Stiles snaps. And then he turns back to the dishes, and Derek didn’t realize someone could rage-wash dishes until now, but there it was. The boy is muttering something under his breath, something about  _ werewolves, the emotional range of a teaspoon. _ It’s not hard to decipher.

Stiles is mad at him. That much is glaringly obvious. The normally sugary scent that follows him is slightly soured with annoyance, anger, the bitter bite of disappointment. But there’s something else there. Something he’s not sure was there all along and he’d just missed it, or if it was something he hadn’t allowed himself to notice in the first place.

But maybe right now he’s too tired to fight it, because it hits him like an anvil to the chest.

There it is, what makes Stiles’s scent so fucking sweet.

_ Love. _

Derek is a fucking idiot. 

Maybe it’s risky, but Derek doesn’t give himself the chance to try to overthink or guilt or logic and reason his way out of this. Because  _ fuck it.  _ That’s his only thought when he reaches out and grabs Stiles by the arm and pulls him close, cups his jaw, and kisses him.

He’s expecting Stiles to do something, sure. Hopefully, kiss him back, maybe do nothing, god forbid pull away. Please not that last one, he thinks desperately. 

What he’s not expecting is for Stiles’s hand to connect with his face, hitting him squarely on the side of his nose with a loud  _ thwack. _ Derek curses, shuddering when he hears a pop he really hopes doesn’t mean broken, trying to blink the blurriness out of his now-streaming eyes.  _ “Stiles, what the fuck.” _

Even through his now partially-obscured vision, Derek can see Stiles looks positively stricken, his eyes wide and panicked. “Oh my god, you kissed me. ”

“Yes,” Derek grumbles, tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose to try and keep it from bleeding. “But I’m regretting that now, I think.”

“Oh my god,” is all Stiles says again. “You kissed me and I broke your face.” 

“I would say that is an accurate summary of what happened here,” Derek mutters, still wincing. “Although I think more accurately you broke my nose and scratched my cornea. I also think you got soap in my eye.” 

“God, I didn’t mean to --”

“No, it’s okay, I shouldn’t have --”

“Yes, I mean, no -- I wanted -- you just surprised me, that’s all. I flailed! I’m a flailer! You know this!” and then Derek’s watching, bewildered as the boy flits around him like some kind of moth on cocaine, gesticulating wildly with his hands like a lunatic. 

And then Stiles is suddenly right in front of him again, holding out the damp dish towel and trying to bring it up to Derek’s face. The wolf ducks on instinct. “What are you doing?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Just let me see. Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” Derek says, huffing indignantly. “Besides, you’re not the one with the broken nose.” 

“If it was broken, it’s healed now. The bruise is gone too,” he says. Stiles’s touch is gentle at least, as he dabs at the tear-streaks on Derek’s cheeks, wiping away the blood still dripping from his nose. “Are all werewolves this whiny, or is it just you?” And then Derek is only more confused because the way Stiles is looking up at him, the way his hands are still tracing the lines and curves of his face, it’s more like caressing now than checking for further injuries. 

“You’re incredibly confusing,” Derek says, his breath hitching when Stiles’s fingers graze his mouth and he has to fight the urge to nip them with his teeth. Then he’s got a hand on Derek’s cheek, his thumb swiping over the bone that had been fractured only minutes ago, and the wolf can’t help when his eyes flutter closed. He wonders again if he opens them, Stiles will be gone. 

But Stiles only laughs, and it’s the good kind of laugh, Derek realizes. Then he’s somehow getting closer and Derek fights the urge to step back reflexively. 

“Now what are you doing?” he asks suspiciously.

“Would you just stand still and shut up?” 

Derek thinks it’s pretty brazen of Stiles to tell  _ him  _ to shut up, and opens his mouth to say so, but he never gets the chance, because Stiles catches his lips in a bruising kiss that is infinitely better than the first. 

It’s the kiss they should have had to begin with. Because kissing Stiles, really kissing him (and not getting a fist to the face for it) is so much more than Derek had ever allowed himself to imagine. Somehow the boy tastes even better than he smells, and Derek can’t help but lick into Stiles’s mouth, chasing every bit of it with his tongue. And Stiles is so fucking responsive, giving as good as he’s getting, his arms looped tight around Derek’s neck like he’s terrified he’ll let go (fat fucking chance of that ever happening now), letting out these sinful little noises when Derek sucks on his bottom lip, scrapes his teeth up and down his jaw. 

Tragically, eventually they have to separate long enough for Stiles to catch his breath. “We should finish the dishes -- “ the boy says, still panting slightly as he rests his forehead against Derek’s chest, nuzzling into the fabric of his shirt. 

Derek grumbles against the crown of his head. “We should go to bed.” Stiles goes still and pulls his head away to gaze up at him with a knowing smirk and a raised eyebrow. It takes Derek five more seconds to realize what just came out of his mouth. “No, I mean - just sleep, we don’t have to --” Oh god. Someone really should shoot him now. He’d thank them, honestly, he would. 

Stiles doesn’t keep him suffering, thankfully. He tosses his head back and laughs, baring his throat in a way that makes Derek go mortifyingly cross-eyed. It certainly doesn’t help his cause, he thinks, feeling his eyes flash red instinctively. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting two years for your dumbass to realize I was in love with you. I definitely want you to fuck me tonight. I mean,” he adds, pausing to press a thoughtful kiss to Derek’s collarbone that almost makes his knees actually tremble. If they weren’t already from the whole  _ I want you to fuck me  _ thing. “If you want to obviousl--.”

Derek’s mouth is back on his before Stiles can even get the final word out. 

“I was serious about the dishes though,” Stiles gasps, moments later when Derek’s got him up on the counter, his long legs wrapped around the wolf’s waist, shivering at the teasing press of fangs over his shoulder blade as Derek trails wet kisses, languid swirls of his tongue over every exposed bit of freckled skin he can reach. “I’m not going to want to do that after. I plan on being way too fucked out to do that.”

Derek laughs, but it comes out slightly broken when Stiles’s fingers dig into his scalp and pull on his hair with a delicious spark of pain. “I’ll do you, and then the dishes,” he hums, licking a long stripe up the side of the boy’s neck with a satisfied growl.

“You’re such an idiot. How can you be so smart and also so dumb at the same time?” Stiles asks, letting out a squeaky sound that should not seem so adorable when Derek pinches his thigh in retaliation.

“You’re the one in love with said idiot, so what does that make you?” Derek says, nudging their foreheads together teasingly. 

“Happy,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek can’t really argue with that. 

  
  


And the dishes do get done.

Eventually. 

**Author's Note:**

> muy guapo: very handsome


End file.
